


The Village

by ama



Category: Band of Brothers, The Pacific (TV)
Genre: F/M, Family, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Multi, Parenthood, Queer Families, Single Parents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-11 19:29:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4449356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/ama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles featuring characters from The Pacific as parents. (Characters/ships will be added as they appear.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“MOOOOOOOOOM!”

“Kids want you. Geddup,” Runner mumbled, poking Chuckler’s side. Chuckler made a vague sound of protest and pulled the blankets closer to him.

“’S Father’s Day,” he said groggily. “Don’t have to get up early on Father’s Day.”

“Yeah you do. They probably tried to make breakfast and set something on fire.”

“Oh _shit_.”

Chuckler fell out of bed in a tangle of limbs, somehow managed to stand, and dashed to the top of the steps, where he nearly collided with their giant Airedale terrier who was excitedly bouncing at the landing. Somehow, both of them managed to get downstairs without breaking anything and he entered the kitchen to find four sheepish kids and a mess.

“The toaster was on fire,” Megan said apologetically, pointing at several black pieces of toast on the counter.

“It was _not_ ,” Abby insisted.

“There was smoke!” Colin said, and everything was lost in a babble of protesting voices and a questioning whine from the dog.

“Ah dah dah, everyone, quiet!” The babble died down. Chuckler rubbed his face and yawned. “Is anything on fire _now_?”

“No,” three voices said immediately.

“N-no.”

He opened his eyes and fixed them immediately on Colin, the only boy and the eldest, who was an absolutely terrible liar. Colin was staring fixedly at the dog, his hands behind his back.

“Colin?”

“…The oven is _probably_ not on fire.”

Chuckler sighed and opened the oven door. He was immediately hit with a strong smell of smoke, and he peered in to find several lumps of charcoal on the bottom of the oven.

“The muffin tins are too full,” he diagnosed. “Some of the batter dripped onto the bottom and got burned; the oven isn’t on fire but it should be cleaned tonight before you go to bed. I’ve shown you how to clean the oven, right?”

“Yeah, I’ll take care of, mom. Oh, and Happy Father’s Day!”

The greeting was repeated on all sides, and then Megan (second-oldest, very competitive) triumphantly declared “I _told_ him the muffin tins were too full!”

This set off another round of bickering, and then Dana, the youngest, tugged at Chuckler’s hand. He crouched down to listen and then, as his knees protested, decided the best course of action was to bring Dana up to his level instead—although, at eight, she was verging on the “too tall to pick up” age, which was a terrifying thought.

“What’s up, munchkin?”

“I made coffee,” she said, pointing at two mugs that sat forlornly on the counter next to the black toast and some undercooked bacon that was steadily dripping grease over the edge of the plate. “I put one sugar in yours and two sugars and a _little_ bit of milk in Daddy’s. Megan helped.”

“Ooh, that’s just how I like it. I can’t wait—can I have some now, or should I wait until the rest of breakfast is ready?”

“You can have some now.”

“No, no, mom, wait just two minutes, it’s almost ready,” Megan urged from the stovetop, where she was flipping some perfectly delicious-looking fried eggs. She didn’t even break the yolks, and Chuckler was impressed. “We were _going_ to bring you breakfast in bed. Go back upstairs—we even found the tray!”

“The tray? Bug, that tray hasn’t been in this house for the last five years. It doesn’t exist.”

“I found it!” Abby declared from the counter, where she was closely monitoring a second batch of toast. “It was in the basement, not the garage, in the fancy Christmas decorations we never use.”

“We’ll carry everything up,” Colin said. “Don’t worry, mom, we got this.”

“Clearly,” Chuckler muttered.

But before his eyes, Megan slipped the fried eggs onto a plate—yolks still intact! two with hard yolks and the other, added later to the pan, properly runny the way Chuckler preferred!—just as Abby popped the toast and Colin removed the enormous, seemingly-cooked muffins from the oven. Dana wiggled out of his grasp and took a bag of grapes from the fridge and began to neatly pluck off individual grapes into a waiting bowl. They had actually managed to pull it off. A complete Father’s Day Breakfast, mostly edible, which could fit on—yes—the miraculously restored breakfast tray waiting on the kitchen table, discovered after at least five years of fruitless searching. Of course, they had also dirtied the maximum numbers of dishes, but hey, they were kids. With a slight smile, Chuckler took his and Runner’s mugs from the counter and slipped back the way he had come, clucking his tongue for the dog to follow.

Groot jumped on the bed and promptly stuck his face in Runner’s, which produced an inelegant squawk. Runner rolled over and blinked at the sight of the mug in Chuckler’s hand.

“Coffee?”

“Milk and sugar. Dana’s masterpiece.”

“Dana managed to run the coffee machine?”

“No, that was Megan.”

“Who started the fire?”

“Abby and the toaster. It wasn’t a real fire, though, just some smoke.”

“Have you noticed that Abby starts more fires than Colin and Megan did _combined_? Kid’s going to be a rocket scientist or something. She’s never going to be happy if she’s not blowing things up.”

“If that’s the case, I don’t think we should let her near rockets,” Chuckler said, yawning, as he climbed in bed. Groot stretched and settled across his knees. “Don’t eat the bacon, by the way, it’ll probably make you sick.  But other than that, I’m pleasantly surprised.”

“You’re always surprised,” Runner mumbled. He took the mug from Chuckler’s hand and took a precarious sip, and let himself slip back so he was lying against the pillows again. He cuddled close against Chuckler’s side. “I’m not. We’re raising some impressive fucking kids, you know? They’re a good team. Work well in a crisis.”

“This house _is_ a crisis.”

“Exactly.”

Chuckler laughed. He set his coffee down on the bedside table and leaned down for a soft kiss.

“Yeah,” he said. “We done good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the Juergens-Conley clan:  
> • Colin (15)  
> • Megan (14)  
> • Abby (12)  
> • Dana (8)
> 
> I've mentioned this on tumblr a few times, but I really like the idea of Team Leckie calling Chuckler their team mom so often that the kids pick it up--and it just sticks, because in a house of six people, shouting "dad! other dad!" down the hallway gets old real fast.


	2. Chapter 2

John Basilone took a gulp of wine that was maybe just a bit too large, and tried not to look at his wife. Partly out of the knowledge that one look at her thin grin, affixed firmly in place with false politeness, would make him burst out laughing, and partly out of the fear that that grin might be directed at him. This had, after all, been his idea. But honestly, how was _he_ supposed to know that good old Staff Sergeant Donovic would turn out to be a pompous ass? Twelve years ago he had been a good guy. And obviously, when Donovic invited him over for a “nice family dinner, just us and the wives,” he thought of beer and barbecue, not dinner at a frigging McMansion.

There had been an extremely awkward moment when Donovic and his wife Madeline opened the door to them and the difference in presumed dress code became clear (John thought Lena looked amazing in her uniform as ever, but judging by the expressions on the face of both women, her straight-from-work clothes weren’t the equivalent of Madeline’s cocktail dress), and it seemed like the dinner had been a string of awkward moments since then. A lot of the conversation had had to do with Donovic’s post-Corps career, which was not nearly as interesting as he thought it was, and then it had transitioned to an in-depth discussion of their two children, who were showing unmistakable signs of brilliance despite being in third and fourth grade.

Luckily, the food was delicious and their hosts were generous with the wine.

Finally the conversation spiraled around towards asking about the Basilone family, and now it was time to deal with the inevitable questions.

“ _Five_?” Madeline repeated.

“Five,” Lena affirmed in a pleasant voice. She looked down to cut a bite of chicken, so thankfully John was the only one who caught the raised-eyebrows look of amusement that passed between the Donovics.

“All yours, or did you adopt?” Dominic asked, and John ticked that phrase off the checklist in his head.

“We didn’t adopt, no.”

“How old?”

“Johnny is eleven, Nichole is nine, and Samantha, Antony, and Michael are all four.”

“Triplets under five? You must have your hands full!” Madeline said with a fake laugh. Tick two.

“They’ve got a lot of energy,” John said, grinning. “But, you know, we both came from pretty big families, too, so we picked up some good strategies.”

“Are you done now, or are you going to try and get a couple substitutes for the basketball team?” Donovic chuckled. _Two for one_ , John thought, consulting his mental list.

“Oh, I think we’re done,” Lena said. “We use the Corps as a recruitment center for babysitters and they’ve already made three Marines cry; if we added another I think we’d be completely out of luck.”

This was met with a round of (more sincere) laughter, and then Madeline fixed her eyes on Lena and opened her mouth, and John thought _This is it_. Time for the best question on the list. He smiled behind the rim of his wineglass as Madeline asked innocently “And you’re still working full time? I’m impressed. It was hard enough when _our_ kids were that young, but with triplets I would want someone to stay home with them, wouldn’t you?”

“Someone _does_ stay home with them,” Lena said. Her grin became even more foxlike than usual, and John set his glass down so he wouldn’t miss his cue. “John.”

“Being a full-time dad, it’s exhausting but it’s got its perks, you know?” he said, immediately launching into the spiel while the couple opposite was still trying to hide their surprise. “I mean, I was overseas when Johnny was born, so I think Lena put in her hours then, and I missed a lot of those early milestones. It’s good to get another chance with the triplets—and this way Lena’s career doesn’t have any more stops and starts. I tell ya, the Corps didn’t know what to do with itself without her there. When we told them she was going on maternity leave for the third time, I swear I saw two colonels and a gunnery sergeant cry.”

The Donovics smiled weakly. After that, dinner and dessert seemed to go by both quicker and slower. Slower because the conversation was sparser and more stilted as it became apparent that, besides being parents and connected to the Marine Coprs, the two couples _really_ didn’t have anything in common. Quicker because the awkward silences made it easier to focus on the food, which was really quite good, and easier to politely slip out after dessert, with only a few half-hearted promises to do this again sometime.

“ _God_. We are never doing that again,” Lena said as soon as the door shut, walking as fast as possible towards the car.

“I’m sorry we had to do it once. But you have to admit, you love getting a chance to pull the ‘John stays at home’ line.”

Lena grinned wickedly—none of the deceptive politeness in her face—and wrapped an arm around his waist. He hugged her by the shoulders.

“You bet I do. God, did you see his face? You could tell exactly what he was thinking: big tough Sergeant Basilone, who probably saved his life in combat, reduced to changing diapers and flipping pancakes—”

“Did I tell you the kids won’t eat my pancakes anymore? I made two dozen chocolate chip pancakes yesterday morning and turned around and all five of ’em were looking at me saying ‘well thanks, Pop, but what we were _really_ hoping for was French toast… has Mom left already?’ Rotten kids.”

Lena chuckled, kissed his cheek, and went around to the other side of the car. John got in the passenger seat and tried not to let the tires squeal on the way out.

“What are you gonna do for fun with strangers when they’re all in school and I go back to work, huh?”

“Are you going back to work? I thought you were starting to enjoy doing laundry.”

“You kidding? I’ve got my heart set on getting back into the Reserves and becoming the loudest, meanest, hardest, strictest drill sergeant they got. The kids think I’ll be a shoe-in.”

Lena laughed out loud and reached over to run her fingers through his hair fondly.

“Well, far be it from me to crush a man’s dream. I suppose I’ll just have to make do.”

“Hey, listen Lena, in all seriousness… you and the kids? Best dream I ever had. I couldn’t imagine our life being any different or any better. I mean that.”

John cleared his throat a little to hide his embarrassment and kept his eyes on the road. There was a soft, peaceful silence for a few blocks, and then Lena muttered “Hardest drill sergeant in the Corps. Yeah, _that’ll_ happen.”


	3. Chapter 3

Snafu Shelton had never been called an upstanding citizen in his life. In fact, he had often taken pains to avoid being called such—which was difficult, as his friends often point out that he did have an impulse to help people, as much as he might deny it. He made up for this instinct by being as rude as he could get away with, but even he had to admit that there were some cases in which he had to put aside his exoskeleton and just be a decent person for once.

This case—that of a small, crying child sitting on a bench with no adult in sight—was one of them.

Snafu looked around him. It was a bench outside one of the exits to a museum, and he tended to think of museums as places that looked after kids. There had to be a parent around, right? Security guard? Receptionist, when all else failed? But when one failed to appear, he sighed, banished thoughts of a pleasant happy hour from his mind, and walked over to kneel by the kid at a respectful distance.

“Hey, dude,” he said. “What’s the matter? Where’s your momma?”

“I d-don’t ha-ha-ha-have a mom,” the boy said, hands covering his red face.

“Okay. You got a dad?” The boy nodded. “Where is he?”

“I don’t _know_!” he said, his voice rising to a wail, and all words were lost in a torrent of sobbing.

Snafu looked around helplessly again—he was not good with kids—and sat on the bench. Hesitantly, he put a hand on the kid’s back. He was small—five, six maybe?—and Snafu’s hand covered his shoulder. He patted his back soothingly and tried to talk in a calm, chipper voice.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry, okay? Don’t worry about it, little man. Listen, we’ll go inside and I’ll help you find him, all right? Or, I dunno, do you know phones at all? ’Cuz I got my cellphone, so if you know his phone number we can call and he’ll come pick you up. Just. Y’know, calm down. Crying ain’t going to do much.”

After a few more long seconds, the boy started gulping deep breaths, and he sniffled and wiped his face. He looked at Snafu like he was an absolute nincompoop.

“Daddy’s not inside,” he said reproachfully. “I was on a field trip.”

“Yeah?”

“’M in first grade.”

“Okay. So where’s your teacher?”

“I don’t _know_. We were s’posed to get picked up at the museum, but Daddy was late so my friend Mai said her mom could take me instead, and Mrs. Parker said I could go because her mom was on the list. But then Mrs. Kato said I _couldn’t_ come because Mai had a doctor’s appointment, and she told me to go right back—but when I got back—” To Snafu’s horror, he sniffled again and his voice became higher in pitch. “—everyone was already _gone_! And I saw a lot of cars here so I came outside to wait in case Daddy was on his way.”

“You need better friends, little man,” Snafu said, shaking his head. “Someone should have walked over with you.”

“But I _like_ Mai.”

“Still. Listen, how old are you? Four?”

“Six!”

“Cool. Old enough to know your Daddy’s cellphone number? And his real name?”

Immediately the boy rattled off a name, number, and home address (which struck Snafu as very unsafe to be telling to a stranger, especially such an obviously-suspicious stranger like himself), and Snafu got out his phone and had him repeat the number, more slowly. It rang once before going to voicemail, and a low voice told him he’d reached Eugene Roe’s number and should leave a message.

“Yeah, hi, this is Snaf—um, Pfc. Merriell Shelton. I’m sitting with your son—what’s your name, little man?”

“Teddy.”

“—with Teddy, outside the uh, children’s museum in West Philly. It looks like his class is gone and he’s wondering where you are, so you should probably call me back asap.”

He left his number and hung up. Teddy was looking at him curiously.

“I thought Mary was a girl’s name.”

“Merri _ell_. It’s my name. I thought Teddy was a bear’s name.”

The joke flew right over the poor kid’s head.

“My full name is Théodore,” he said proudly, pronouncing the name carefully in the French way. “Teddy’s just for short. My daddy is Cajun and he speaks French so my name is French, too.”

“No shit? I mean, no kidding? Where’s your dad from?”

Teddy thought for a moment.

“Um, America.”

“I mean did he ever live in Louisiana?” Snafu asked, amused.

“My grandma and grandpa live there!”

They managed to carry on a conversation, despite diffidence on both sides, for a few more minutes until a blue car abruptly lurched to a halt in front of the doors and pulled over hastily into the fire lane. By that point, Snafu was starting to become fond of Teddy—he was almost like a person, and definitely too nice to deserve some jerk of a father who abandoned him as a museum—and he stood, ready to have it out with this Eugene Roe. But then the man himself actually emerged from the car, and Snafu was… well, floored.

The first thing he noticed was that Roe had an expression of near-panic on his face, which went a long way towards soothing his indignation on Teddy’s behalf. He also, to put it bluntly, had an _attractive_ face. His hair was dark and he had straight, dark brows that gave a distinct sense of character, especially contrasted against his pale skin. And he was wearing a uniform.

Snafu was only human, after all.

Teddy had not previously mentioned that his dad was hot, so Snafu turned to flash him an accusative look, but Teddy leapt up from the bench and ran towards his father happily, his Hulk backpack bouncing wildly with each step.

“Daddy!” He leaped without a second’s warning, but Roe, clearly used to such behavior, caught him and hefted him on his hip.

“Teddy? Why are you out here alone? Where’s Mrs. Parker?”

Teddy explained, but Roe was clearly only half listening, and his questioning gaze was on Snafu, who shoved his hands in his pockets and straightened his shoulders to appear respectable.

“I’m Merriell Shelton. I’m—or, I guess I used to be a Marine, and I found him waiting here, so…” He offered this additional information to prove that he was an Adult, a Responsible Adult, not a creepy one, and then instantly berated himself for sounding like an idiot. “I left a message on your cellphone?” he offered helpfully.

“Died half an hour ago, I couldn’t get it to charge in the car. I’m a paramedic,” he said belatedly. “That’s why I was late; it was a crazy shift, I came right from the ER. I’m so sorry I was late again, mon petit,” he said to Teddy, who was all smiles without a tear in sight.

“I forgive you,” he said magnanimously. “Merriell and I are friends now. He comes from Louisiana, like Grandma, and he knows how to say my name right. Is it okay if he comes to dinner?”

Roe glanced at Snafu, embarrassed.

“Buddy, I don’t know if—”

“I eat dinner,” Snafu said, trying to maintain eye contact and appear as gay as possible without being weird. A slight smile appeared on Roe’s face—or maybe he was just imagining it.

“All right. Well, not tonight, but maybe some other time…? Let me give you my number—”

“Already got it.”

“Right. Listen, thank you so much for looking out for him. I really can’t say how much I appreciate it.”

“No trouble. You heard the little man, we’re friends,” he said with a grin, and Teddy waved.

With another round of thanks, the two got into the car and drove off. Snafu watched them go, feeling considerably pleased with himself with having done his good deed for the year and possibly gotten a date out of it—and, as he realized when he checked his watch, he still had time to get to happy hour.

All in all, it was a pretty good day.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angie is fifteen, the daughter of Sledge and his fiancee Cynthia, who died shortly after giving birth. And "Aunt Mary" is, of course, Mary Houston Phillips.

From the minute she started growing hair, people had been saying that Angelina Sledge looked just like her father. At the time he had objected—she was a _baby_ , she didn’t look like anyone, and two little tufts of auburn hair didn’t change that—but as she grew older, he had to admit that they were right. The funny thing was that the resemblance was strongest when she was upset; when her dark, straight brows drew over her eyes and emphasized the line of her jaw. He didn’t _like_ seeing his daughter upset, but whenever he did there was a curious, proud ache in his heart that he could never quite understand.

“Angie, something wrong?” he asked casually one night after ten minutes of studying her surreptitiously across the kitchen table. They were finishing up dinner, and other than a few perfunctory answers to his questions about her day, Angie had fallen silent. She was a thoughtful girl, but this seemed a bit _too_ thoughtful.

“Huh? No, I’m fine.”

She continued to frown at her plate.

“Trying to tell your fortune in your peas?” he suggested with half a grin, and her eyes lifted to his with that reproachful _oh my god, Dad_ look common to all fourteen-year-olds.

“I was just—thinking,” she said haltingly. “You know, Caroline’s mom married her boyfriend two weeks ago.”

“I remember you telling me.”

“So I was wondering—do you think you’re ever going to get married?”

Eugene chewed his meatloaf with what was possibly unnecessary slowness, caught off guard by the question.

“Well, I don’t know,” he said finally. “What with Caroline’s mom and your Aunt Mary both being off the market—”

“ _Dad_.”

He grinned apologetically and stood up, taking his plate to the sink.

“Honestly, Angie, I never thought of it,” he said slowly as he rinsed his plate. “After your mom… well, I don’t mind telling you I was broken up for a good couple of years. I couldn’t’ve thought of marrying someone else if I tried. And even afterwards, between you and the PhD I’ve kind of had my hands full, don’t you think? Are you finished with that?”

“Yeah.” She handed him her plate and started to clear the table, still not quite looking at him.

“Is this… I mean… were you just thinking about Caroline’s mom, or is this because of something else?” he asked hesitantly. Angie didn’t answer immediately, and he pushed forward. “I know it can’t be easy for you—just having Grandma and Aunt Mary and Aunt Martha. If…”

“No, that’s not it,” Angie said, and this time she looked at him with a quick smile. “I don’t really think I _need_ a mom. Aunt Mary’s always telling me I’m _basically_ her daughter, and you and me—we do okay.”

“I like to think so,” Eugene said with a crooked smile. He rinsed the last dish and put it in the dishwasher, and was just about to suggest ice cream when Angie spoke again, mumbling at twice her normal rate of speech.

“I just read somewhere that having someone to touch or talk to at night helps with nightmares. So I thought… maybe you should think about it.”

Eugene froze.

“Sweetheart… Angie, come here.” He rested his hands on her shoulders briefly—she flashed him a guilty look, as though she had done something wrong just by overhearing his restless whimpers in the night—and pulled her in for a tight hug. “I don’t want you worrying about that, okay?” he said, his voice slightly muffled as he rested his cheek against her hair. “They get worse from time to time… I think it’s Grandpa being sick that’s got me stressed lately, but it’s _nothing_ to bother you. He’s fine now, I’ll be fine—and you, you just focus on school and your friends, okay? Let me do the looking after.”

“That’s not fair,” she said, shaking her head, and she drew back to look him in the face. She wasn’t avoiding him anymore; it was always bringing up the topic that was hard, but once she had managed that, she could manage just about anything. Her voice was stern. “We’re _family_ , Dad. We’re supposed to look after each other. And just because I’m a kid doesn’t mean I can’t help; I see you more than anyone else does, don’t I? So I might know when things are wrong even if other people don’t.”

“Nothing is wrong.”

“But—”

“Angie, listen to me. There’s some wrongs you can fix and some you can’t. You just gotta live with them, okay? This is something I’ve gotta live with. It’s better than it was.”

He could see her struggle to accept it, and again that familiar ache spasmed through his heart. She was stubborn as hell and smart as anything. God, he was so proud of her.

“All right,” she mumbled after a minute. She hugged him again and mumbled “Love you, Daddy.”

“I love you too, Ang.” They stood there for a moment in comfortable silence, Eugene smoothing her hair and wondering when she got to be this tall. “I’ve got an idea,” he said abruptly. “You got any plans for tonight?”

“No.”

“What’d you say to digging some ice cream out of the freezer and getting me on one of those online dating websites, huh? You’ll get to make fun of all the dumb answers I give and try to make me sound cool to strangers.”

The worry evaporated from Angie’s face and she grinned up at him delightedly—and _that_ expression was one hundred percent her mother.

“Really?”

“Heck yeah. You get the ice cream, I’ll get my computer.”

-

“Okay, so I need your credit card number first.”

“Hold on, is this a paid site? Aren’t there free ones?”

“Dad, the free ones are for, like, college kids. You need one of the official ones to prove you’re not a creep.”

“All right… but check the fine print, maybe they’ll accept payment in the form of my firstborn child.”

“Dad!”

-

“I think it’s weird how specific I can be with what I’m looking for. I feel like I’m building Frankenstein’s Monster.”

“Don’t make it creepy. Her relationship status?”

“No preference.”

“Does she have kids?”

“No preference.”

“Does she want kids?”

“Either definitely or no but it’s okay if I do. And sweetheart, that one’s a dealbreaker.”

“Let _go_ , I can’t reach the keyboard! Next question is salary range. I’m not reading them all but look, those are the options.”

“Put down I’m not accepting anyone with less than a million dollars in the bank. Maybe we can get your college tuition paid right now too, save a lot of hassle in the long run.”

“Dad, I’m getting you a girlfriend, not a sugar momma.”

“ _How do you know what that means?_ ”

-

“Okay, your relationship status…”

“Never married.”

“Oh. Right.”

“You’re surprised?”

“Not really. I guess I always kind of thought…”

“I’m pretty sure you have to be officially married to be a widower.”

“I guess. People always assume, so I guess that’s just what I think.”

“Me too, sometimes.”

-

“Hobbies?”

“Reading, fishing, playing with my dog, annoying my daughter.”

“That one’s not an option.”

“Can you type it in?”

“No! I’m supposed to be making you sound cool, not like a giant dork. I’m putting ‘coffee and conversations’ because it’s sophisticated.”

“Oh is it?”

“Yes, it is. Next question is list something you read recently. I’m going to put down your book.”

“Isn’t that going to sound a bit pretentious?”

“You are pretentious.”

“Hey!”

“If she’s going to marry you, she needs to know that you’re the kind of guy who reads his own book like once a month.”

“... All right, fair enough.”

-

“There,” Angelina said triumphantly as she clicked on the big blue button. “It’s official. Now we just have to wait for them to confirm that you’re a real person, and then you can start sending people messages and things. Do you think you’ll need my help with that?” she asked, her brown eyes wide with innocence and mischief in her smile. Eugene snorted.

“No, Angie, I think I can manage to talk to a woman by myself, thank you very much.” He yawned and glanced at the clock; he had been working late in his office that night, and they had had dinner late. “How’s the homework situation?”

“I have half a page of algebra left. Then I think I’m going to bed.”

“Good idea. I’m going to take a walk. Might bring Cassie with me.”

He could really use a cigarette, too, he thought longingly. He had never broken the habit of carrying a lighter in his jacket pocket, and there might be half a pack still in his old winter coat—?

“Don’t smoke,” Angie said shrewdly. “Remember what Grandpa says—if you keep smoking you’re going to _die_.”

“I don’t think he phrased it quite like that.”

“Close enough.”

“All right, all right, I get your point. No cigarettes, just me and the dog. We might be back kinda late, though, okay? So don’t wait up.”

He stood and slapped his thigh, and their old Irish setter was at his side immediately, her tail wagging like crazy. He bent and kissed Angie on the forehead.

“’Night, baby girl.”

“’Night, Dad. I love you.”

“Love you, too.”


End file.
